


Arlathan

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan-era, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Fen'harel is not a nice god and this is why we aren't allowed nice things, M/M, Non-explicit Sex/Rape, Post-Game, Psychological Torture, Slavery, Slow Build, Suicidality, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had both been touched by the magic that Gereon Alexius had used to warp time at Redcliffe, sending them far ahead enough to see what must happen to change their fate. They had changed their Present to claim their Future - and really, it had been simply a matter of <i>when</i> the fallout would occur.</p><p>Where the Fade itself sends Dorian and Lavellan into the Past to correct what Lavellan had inadvertently caused when he broke the orb; the insanity of the Dread Wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atisha mah ara'val

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this story is based upon both the ending where the Orb is destroyed, and the cutscene where Solas takes the essence of Mythal from Flemeth.
> 
> I think of it like this: with the destruction of the Orb, Solas/Fen'harel lost the majority of his divine powers. Thus, a God soul within a human vessel, absorbing another God, is more than enough to corrupt the pure aspects that they both should represent. Rebellion and Protection becomes a crueler, insane Judgement and Persecution.
> 
> Obviously, he's going to destroy the world in his zeal to restore Elven supremacy and immortality.
> 
> And obviously, the Fade's not going to let that kind of shit go down.
> 
> **Arlathan plot doesn't start until Chapter 5.**

_the peace ahead of long journeys_

* * *

It was the gentle caress of fingers against his hip that slowly roused him, pulling him away from the sweet nothingness of his slumber with every spark-inducing drag against his skin.

But it wasn't enough for him to move—no, it was only when the sensation was followed by the sharp bite of the mountaintop breeze against his bared back that the slumbering man finally moved, a slight shiver running down his back.

At the reflexive flinch, those fingers slid up his side and around to press a warm palm against his back, drawing him into a warm chest. And though the warmth was enough for him to settle comfortably, it was enough to rouse him.

Blearily, Lavellan slowly cracked his eyes open to peer around the dimly lit room.

The doors to the balcony were open, letting the icy wind drift through the portal and allowing winter to settle upon everything inside. The heavy Orlesian drapes upon the walls and the Fereldan carpets did nothing to preserve what little heat the fireplace provided, and the flames were dying down with every gust.

A soft sigh left his parted lips.

"You should go back to sleep," Dorian murmured absently, his hand leaving Lavellan's back momentarily to flip to the next page on the book he was currently reading. When he felt the weight of perturbingly bright green eyes upon his face, he glanced down at Lavellan.

A smile was gracing his perfectly shaped lips.

"The Maker knows that you need it, _amatus_ ; not all people can look as magnificent as I do with only a few hours of rest," the mage finished with a soft chuckle.

Lavellan shifted slightly, pulling the layers of furs and blankets more securely around himself. His back no longer bared to the cold, he hooked a leg between Dorian's as he settled his head into the crook of Dorian's neck.

He sighed again—contentedly, this time.

"Put your book away first... whenever you read, my dreams are filled with the repetitive swishing of paper and unintelligible mumbles." He complained quietly, his voice hoarse with slumber that still hadn't faded from either his eyes or mouth.

Dorian paused, before he closed his book and moved to set it aside. A triumphant smile graced Lavellan's tired features at the silent acquiescence, waiting patiently for Dorian to finally settle against him again.

"How I've landed myself such a spoilt lover is beyond me. Perchance it is too late to ask for someone else," Dorian commented fondly, his arm moving to wrap around his _el'vhen_ lover securely.

Lavellan closed his eyes, softly huffing his laughter through his nose. "You couldn't replace me with anyone." he replied firmly.

Dipping his head in, Dorian pressed their foreheads together, tips of their noses brushing at their close proximity. "Only because it'll be too much of an effort to find someone handsome enough to hang off of my arm." He whispered almost conspiratorially.

The elf let out a soft snort, keeping his eyes closed as Dorian's lips began to trail down his neck, lingering over the marks that had yet to fade. The mage had turned out to be the possessive type of man who enjoyed the sight of his various bites and bruises marking Lavellan's skin. Oftentimes in the evenings, when they had yet to sleep, Dorian would often spend idle hours tracing an clean quill over his skin, writing his name over and over again.

"By that, I think you mean someone _shorter_ than you." He accused finally, keeping his tone light and amused.

The feeling of carefully groomed facial hair against his skin was rather distracting for the elf as Dorian began to speak again, the coiffed moustache shifting with each movement of his lips. Nevertheless, Lavellan managed to find it in himself to listen to Dorian, lips quirking at the teasing jaunt to his words.

"Well, I suppose I could give you that... But rather, I find myself falling into the habit of, hm,  _collecting_ dangerous, attractive and influential men."

Lavellan's hand moved to cup the back of Dorian's neck, thumb rubbing against the velvety shaved parts of his hair. "I could say the same here. Except I prefer influencing dangerously attractive men into my bed," he replied.

"I should hope that I stay  _dangerously attractive_ and gullible, then," the mage said with a smirk.

The elf smiled. "And here I was thinking that being a bedwarmer was too low a position for you."

"Oh, I'm more than satisfied when I'm beneath you,  _amatus_."

Lavellan could feel his ears burn with the familiar sensation of a blush.

Although the elf wouldn't mind indulging his lover in his flirtatious banter for a little longer, it was getting all too late for the elf. He would most likely be in a disagreeable mood for the majority of the coming day should he be deprived of his sleep. Dorian was _very_ successful at causing that in particular, thanks to his clever tongue.

A small hand reached up to cup the back of Dorian's head, tangling into dark curls so unlike his own as he pulled him into a gentle kiss. There was an understated deception to the simple, affectionate touch.

Nimble fingers brushed against a scar hidden under Dorian's thick hair, where once blood magic had attempted to invade, to destroy and to rebuild into something _lesser_.

Rather than responding to his flirtatious line, Lavellan murmured, "Sleep,  _ma'ros_. The sun won't wait for us to sleep before it rises."

Dorian let out a soft hum of acknowledgement, and the elf let his fingers slid from his scalp to his chest, where he splayed his hand over his heart.

"Good night,  _ma'ros,_ "

In the dim light of the fireplace, Dorian's smile was soft and unguarded. "Dream sweet things for me, would you? Preferably sweet things _of_ me. Unless you want something more  _risqué_ _,_ then I'll be happy to provide you some... ah, ideas."

Lavellan swatted lightly at Dorian's shoulder, smiling despite himself at Dorian's preposition. His lover could be so ridiculous at times, but he honestly wouldn't have it any other way. "I'm serious, Dorian. Go to sleep."

" _Ooh_ , using my full name now, Nuvenin? Am I in trouble?"

"If you keep talking, you will be in the morning..."

Dorian chuckled, pulling the blankets over both of their heads and trapping them in a small and private cocoon-like embrace. Unable to see in the absolute darkness under their blankets, the elf closed his eyes, smiling as he felt Dorian's arm wrap around his waist, pulling him close.

The last things he could remember before he'd slipped into the Fade were the feeling of Dorian surrounding him and the distant crackling of the fire.

* * *

Morning came to them cruelly, with the door to Lavellan's room bursting open with a loud and resounding  _crack!_ against the stone walls.

Even before the door had enough time to hit the wall, the two occupants of the bed had spurred into action: Lavellan had barely enough time to grab one of his daggers to arm himself when Dorian cast a shield around them, staff at the ready to blast the intruder with Elemental Fire.

However, when the elf recognised exactly who it was that had entered his chambers, he let out a soft groan.

Lowering his dagger, he slumped against Dorian and hid his face into his lover's shoulder, not wanting to deal with Leliana this early in the day.

The spy would understand; he wasn't up to playing mind games with the woman when sleep had returned to fog his mind.

And really, neither was Dorian.

"Not that I'm against seeing you first thing in the morning, but wouldn't a knock on the door suffice in waking us up?" The Tevinter mage asked rather grumpily, smoothing a hand over his features. Lavellan knew how much he hated it when people saw him before he'd shaved and made himself presentable.

"I'm afraid not. I have received some intelligence from my agents that I'm sure will come as... _ah,_  bad news." Leliana said blithely, ignoring their state of undress with enviable stoicism as she addressed Lavellan.

"... Has Sera messed with Bianca again?" The elf asked, pulling himself away from Dorian enough to look at his spymaster warily.

He hoped that her information wasn't going to be as bad as he thought it was going to be. Never before had she, or any of his advisors, felt the need to come up to hand him some news personally. Not even reports of his Clan being— _destroyed_ had necessitated the need for such a private and urgent meeting.

Leliana let out a soft sigh—one that Lavellan was surprised to have witnessed.

This was bound to be _very_ bad news if it could break through her usual calm. It was quite possible that she'd be announcing a possible ending for the world, as if the Blight hadn't been enough.

Closing her eyes briefly, the woman finally spoke again. "If only she had. I'm sure you recall how Solas has been...  _missing_ ever since you destroyed the Orb and defeated Corypheus, Inquisitor. I had my agents spread out to find out where he'd gone, and what he's up to—and as you know, there had been no news..."

"Or so it had been, until this very day I presume," Dorian drawled when Leliana had gone silent.

His features were marred with an impatience that belied his concern. Lavellan reached out to lace their fingers together, squeezing it tightly.

"Indeed, just an hour before." The spy's eyebrows furrowed, looking obviously discomforted at what she had to say next. "My agents have sent me disturbing reports of an elf, whose description matches  _suspiciously_  well to that of Solas', heading to the north of Orlais—and singlehandedly destroying any city or village that he encounters."

" _What?_ " The Dalish elf couldn't help but interject with a horrified exclamation.

Solas?

Destroying cities?

He couldn't believe such things, even if they came from the lips of Leliana. His friend, his  _hah'ren_  was a Fade Walker; a peaceful apostate who specialised in barriers and spirits—not Primal magic like Dorian. He wouldn't—couldn't—have caused endless destruction, not when the war against Corypheus had taken so many.

Leliana continued on as if he hadn't interrupted, unconsciously pacing back and forth as she spoke, her hands gesturing almost animatedly. Each jerk of her hands and fingers was controlled, revealing her frustration. "The strange thing about the report is that all humans, dwarves, or Qunari present are massacred, but it is only the elves are left alive. Stranger still, Dalish or not, my people say that they're left with—blood writing upon their faces in the form of six eyes, three in a row upon each temple."

Six eyes...?

Lavellan's breath hitched, and his eyes widened.

Only Dorian could tell that he began to shake, his fingers slackening around his lover's hand.

"Are you sure?" He demanded, voice deceptively strong as he stared up at Leliana.

When she nodded, he cursed in Dalish. Grabbing a blanket as he quickly clambered out of bed, wrapping it hazardously around his hips. For once ignoring the way Leliana's eyes lingered on the marks upon his chest and neck, he began to throw his clothing on, 

"I'll meet you at the war table, Leliana," he said curtly, fingers quickly lacing up his shirt and pants, ignoring the sounds of Dorian moving to emulate him. As he gabbed his armour and began to shrug them on, Dorian suddenly grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn around.

The altus had an uncharacteristic frown on his face, looking strangely serious as he stared into Lavellan's eyes.

" _Amatus_ , what's wrong?" He asked, reaching up to thumb the sudden stress lines on his brow. He then followed the trail that the line had led up to; the arrow point of the  _vallaslin_ that marked him one of Andruil's followers.

Lavellan shook his head. "I'll tell you later."

He wouldn't let himself believe in what he had just heard from Leliana.

Fen'harel couldn't be real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
>  _Ma'ros_ comes from the _El'vhen_ verb _rosa_ , which means "to last (through time)". I'm interpreting it as 'eternity' in this case, so Lavellan calls Dorian his eternity/eternal love.


	2. Din'len'in dirtha el'u'la

_the dead speak secrets_

* * *

When Lavellan had reached the war table, he could tell that Leliana had withheld some of her information from him when she'd come up to his room less than half an hour ago.

Upon the map, various knives and markers snaked up the northern coastal strip of Orlais but without the intention of heading east for the Free Marches. Surveying the map, Josephine's features were withdrawn and tired; Cullen looked conflicted, worried; Cassandra had anger written into the lines of her face.

Leliana was at the head of the table, waiting for him to join her.

"From what little we have of his activities, Solas is heading for the Tevinter Imperium." She announced without any prompting, gesturing towards the trail of markers. "It is public knowledge that he is affiliated with the Inquisition. Should he attack the Imperium, it's safe to say that finding Solas would be the least of our problems."

Cassandra let out a scoffing laugh at that, crossing her arms over her chest. "I would have never expected Solas to be the one to betray us in such a way." She remarked, anger making her words hollow.

Not responding to Cassandra's words, Josephine set her writing pad down onto the table, resting her hands heavily against the wooden surface as she took over from where Leliana had left off.

"The magicracy will take Solas' independent actions as representative for the Inquisition as a whole," she announced gravely, eyebrows furrowing as she traced a line from the last knife towards Minrathous—both the capital city of the Imperium and Dorian's home.

Lavellan realised what that had signified. Solas was heading straight for the heart of the Imperium; destroy the capital, the centre of their magicracy... and the rest would fall away like chaff in the wind.

(For a traitorous moment, he couldn't help but wonder: what would Thedas be like— _for the Dalish—_ once the Tevinters were gone?)

Josephine's finger rested upon the city of Minrathous, flicking against the model castle that was resting over the dot that signified the city. The model fell sideways, hitting paper with a dull thud.

"They  _will_ declare war upon us, the moment Solas enters one of their cities with the intention to destroy. Inquisitor; we  _must_ declare Solas as having gone rogue before we find ourselves in a very precarious situation." Her dark eyes were sharp as she stared into Lavellan's eyes. "We cannot risk waging war with the Tevinter Imperium over a hedge mage."

The cold, impersonal address of one of Lavellan's closest friends, his  _hah'ren_ , made him frown. Conflicted, he looked between his four advisors, seeing in each of their expressions the urgent need to declare such a thing.

The elf closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as he curled his fingers against the weathered grain of the war table.

"... Announce it. Tell everyone that Solas is now fugitive." He said finally, slowly opening green eyes to peer distantly at the map.

He noticed distantly that Leliana had slipped away from the room to do his bidding, and that Cullen and Cassandra had moved to stand closer to him. Josephine was still on the opposite side of the table, scribbling hastily onto her writing pad.

Lavellan inhaled and exhaled a few times, slowly. Buying himself time to think. "Dorian and I will leave for the Imperium. Cassandra—I can't have you come with us this time. You'll stay here, I need someone I trust to keep Skyhold in order."

The warrior's lips were parted in protest, and she slammed a gauntlet-covered hand on the table. "I will not have you unprotected, Inquisitor!" She exclaimed, eyebrows drawn together. "You cannot keep me here when you leave for the Imperium. You of all people should know that a free elf, Herald of Andraste or not, will not remain so for long in those lands!"

"And that's why I'll be taking 'Bull with me," Lavellan replied, setting a hand on top of the Seeker's.

She paused, looking surprised at the sudden touch. The elf had never been known for displays of physical affection.

"The magi of Tevinter know the power of the Qunari, and fear them more than they would a human. And I'll bring Varric too—magic is their main choice of weapon, and does not effect dwarves as much. I will be safe with them; Dorian wouldn't let them take me."

There was a moment where no one said anything.

Josephine was watching Lavellan with discreet concern, making him withdraw his hand from Cassandra's.

"You've thought about this a lot," Cullen said finally, accepting though obviously displeased at the elf's plans.

Lavellan sent Cullen a wan smile. "Dorian has... spoken often of returning to Minrathous. He had plans on reforming the Imperium—plans that I... I would not have prevented. I have had nights to think of who to bring with me when I would visit him. I would have brought Vivienne with me, lastly. We would have needed a skilled enchanter."

The former Templar bowed his head, before straightening up his posture.

"When you find Solas... Bring him straight to Skyhold." Cullen paused, mulling his following words over. "He is to be a prisoner of the Inquisition."  _It would be the only way we can keep him safe._

Lavellan nodded, before turning to Cassandra and Josephine.

"We'll send word the moment we get him," he promised, eyes flickering between the two women. They had been with him since the beginning of his journey; he had been a prisoner under Cassandra's authority, he had been a leader above them, he had been their friends.

He couldn't help but feel as if this would be the last time he would see them.

The thought stung more than he thought it would.

"Good hunting, Inquisitor." The ambassador murmured. "We'll await eagerly for your success."

Before Lavellan could leave the room, Cassandra's voice made him pause. "Stay safe. You may be an elf—but the others are not. Solas may not be in his right mind, and..." She trailed off.

The words she did not say came to his mind.

_They may perish like all those in the reports._

The thought hardened the elf's resolve, even as his mind flashed back to Redcliffe, where he'd seen Cassandra and Leliana and Varric crumbling under the influence of red lyrium. He could not let them die; not for him, not because of him.

He nodded.

"I'll bring them home safe. All of them."

* * *

 The journey to the Imperium took longer than Lavellan hoped.

One week.

Seven suns.

Solas would have definitely reached the heart of Minrathous by now, and their efforts may have been in vain.

Lavellan hoped that the city was still standing.

"I wasn't expecting to head back home in such a fashion," Dorian remarked, perched upon his horse as if the long days of riding and the northern heat had not been enough to hamper his energy.

The only sign of their arduous journey could be seen in the shadows beneath his eyes; the faint wisps of hair that graced his jawline. Dorian always hated being unpresentable; it was only in times of hardship that he would be lax with his grooming.

"I'd imagined myself returning home on my lonesome; the weary hero of Thedas and consort to the vanquisher of Corypheus, gathering mages and slaves alike under his banner for freedom."

"What I wouldn't give to see a scene like that; Dorian of House Pavus, mustache drooping and hair mussed with the oils of travel as he crawls through the tall, pearly gates of Minrathous on his belly. The women and men would be all over you, wanting to take care of the poor, heroic—uh, _hero,_ " Varric remarked, though his words were laced with fatigue. "I'd be more than happy to write a memoir of your exploits."

Dorian rolled his eyes at Varric's jest, sending Lavellan a wry grin.

The elf tried to return it, but his expression quickly slipped back into one of worry and stress.

The smile slipped off of Dorian's lips.

"I'm sure Dorian will appreciate anyone who comes to him with a brush and soap," Lavellan said finally, tone remaining rather flat despite his attempt at humour. "Perhaps they might even be graced with a witty quip if they rub him behind the ears."

"Now, now,  _amatus_ , I'd appreciate it if you didn't spread stories about where I like to be pet."

"Oh—don't hold back on my account; I'd love to know more about what happens behind closed doors... purely for  _informational_ purposes, I swear." Varric's eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Dorian glanced at the dwarf, a hand moving to smooth an errant lock backwards from his brow. "If I find Cassandra making moves upon Nuvenin, I know who to blame."

At the thought of his greatest of companions trying to grope at his chest with her gauntleted fingers, spouting a line from _Swords and Shields_ , Lavellan found himself laughing, tossing his head back as he filled the air with his amusement.

Soon enough, Dorian and Varric followed him in his laughter, their soft chuckles accompanying his in a strange but wonderful harmony.

However, their laughter soon faded into a silence that was only interrupted by the pounding of hooves against the sandy terrain that covered the Imperium.

The hours crawled past, but the terrain never seemed to change: everywhere they looked was sand and the occasional shrub.

The sun passed its apex point, beginning to make way for the moon to rise.

The dracolisk that Lavellan was riding was beginning to tire.

"We'll have to stop soon," the elf murmured softly, almost to himself. They couldn't waste time, however. Every minute not spent traveling was another minute that Solas would use to get away.

"Perhaps you should focus instead more on what's ahead," the Iron Bull suddenly piped up. He'd fallen silent from the moment they'd crossed the border between Orlais and the Tevinter Imperium, so hearing the gravelly voice of the Qunari had taken more than one of them by surprise.

As one, the three of them turned their eyes ahead.

With the sun setting behind it, Minrathous slowly rose from the horizon. The towers arched gracefully into the sky, scraping clouds and chiseled so smoothly that they seemed to be statues rather than buildings. The gates came into view, enormous metal doors that dared any intruder to break through them, the cold, grey steel baptised by the crimson glow of the sunset.

It was magnificent; nothing like Lavellan would have ever imagined.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, unable to tear his eyes away from the gargantuan city that lay before them.

"Well, it seems that the city is still standing." Dorian stated a moment later, sounding rather prideful at the elf's obvious awe. "Perhaps Solas has taken a detour and explored the sights before destroying it; t'would be a shame to lose such a magnificent view, after all."

Varric snorted. "If you weren't so obviously a mage, I would've pegged you to be the peacock instead."

"He does enough posturing to be one, indeed," 'Bull agreed, chuckling when Dorian sent them both faux-offended looks. "All he'd need are the feathers."

As the three of them began to banter amongst each other, somehow regaining their usual jovial mood, they inched closer and closer to the now-imposing gates into the city.

Trepidation filled the elf.

Minrathous was not gentle with his kind.

His mind flashed back to the words Cassandra had left him with, and he wondered how she would have reacted to any slavers attempting to buy him from Dorian or the others. She would've wet her blade with blood days the moment they reached the Imperium. The scarce few towns that they'd visited had left Dorian in a rage that had left Varric and the Iron Bull unwilling to go near the mage.

Lavellan had been charmed by Dorian's anger, drawing him into soft kisses whenever he would move to burn the slavers into a crisp. The elf couldn't help but wonder at times whether Dorian merely exaggerated his anger (never falsify, however) in order to monopolise Lavellan's attentions while their companions shooed away stunned slavers from their party.

The elf reached out, managing somehow to snag Dorian's sleeve despite the distance between their mounts. Sending his lover a smile, he gestured for Dorian to take point.

"It's your welcome home." He said quietly.

"Let's hope they don't lynch us," Dorian said lightly.

* * *

Fortunately for Dorian, no lynching had occured.

In fact, their entry into Minrathous had been surprising anti-climatic.

No guards had announced their arrival, letting them enter without much fuss. No assassins or fighting squad had met them, nor was there an army of mages waiting to attacking Lavellan for having destroyed Corypheus.

They'd been completely left alone.

Other than the occasional stare, Lavellan had been otherwise ignored by the Tevinters; it had been the Iron Bull and Varric who had been subject to the majority of the people's interest. A Qunari, daring to walk on Tevinter land? Was it an attempt to take more land than the Island of Seheron? And a dwarf, accompanying said Qunari? And what of that mage behind them: was he an accomplice? A betrayer?

Lavellan found it rather amusing to whisper occasional comments to Dorian about the possible thoughts the people might have about them.

Varric had joined him almost immediately, and they'd attempted to outdo each other on how outrageous their comments could get. 'Bull had eventually added a few of his own quips, enthusiastically (and _very much so_ at that!) recounting bawdy lines that had Varric guffawing and Lavellan turning pink.

The dwarf had just ended a quip of his with a sharp nudge to 'Bull's hip (which was just about as high as he could reach on the tall Qunari) when their mage spoke up suddenly.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they thought that you three are my bodyguards... or rather, my sex slaves," Dorian then commented offhandedly, adding a wink that had the Iron Bull smirking widely. "It isn't uncommon here, after all."

Barely pausing to think about his response, Lavellan replied with a blasé, "I doubt I would mind, even if I were."

Dorian tripped, making 'Bull snort.

Varric burst into peals of delighted laughter.

Other than that particular mishap, they'd eventually found a respectable looking inn, making themselves home quickly before the day could end.

Dorian and Lavellan had met with the innkeeper, settling on a price and a room for the night. Having obtained a brass key from the keep, they all went up the stairs to the rented room.

They all moved instinctively to seal up the room: the beds were pushed away from the windows; Dorian erected wards of privacy and protection; 'Bull claimed the bed closest to the door. Varric would be furthest, thanks to Bianca, while Dorian and Lavellan would be in the middle. It was the easiest way of protecting the elf should their room be invaded.

"Perhaps... we could go to the slave district in the morning. If Solas comes here, that would be where he'd begin," Lavellan suggested. "I mean—if I dress up right for it, we'd be able to infiltrate the area; ask around to see if Solas has been hiding out here instead of attacking immediately. A bare-face elf with no hair isn't hard to find, right?"

Dorian immediately shut that down, a stony glare in his grey eyes.

"You will do no such thing. Do you have any idea what _potential_  buyers do to slaves they're considering to obtain?" He all but spat.

Lavellan's eyes widened at the sudden vitriol, instinctively stepping backwards as Dorian suddenly approached him. A stifled gasp escaped him when he hit the wall.

The mage grabbed Lavellan by the hair, pulling him close as he continued to hiss, " _Sampling the wares_ is the least they could do; it isn't uncommon for slaves to disappear in the middle of an auction, only to be found a few days later completely drained of blood and a few gold placed under their swollen, black tongues. The gold's just enough to pay for the slave, and it's a promise that they're going to be back for more _goods_ , just like the one they'd tried out."

With his other hand, he grabbed Lavellan's jaw. He then mimed the cut of a knife along the underside of throat with his nail, which made Lavellan shiver under his touch, both horrified and strangely interested in the dangerous hint to his actions.

"The higher the buyer is up the magicracy; the more liberties they are willing to take," Dorian continued, fingers beginning to dig into Lavellan's neck. The soft areas just beneath his jaw were pressed against, not depriving him of air, but the pressure was enough to feel uncomfortable. "Pavus I may be, but it's not  _enough_ to stop others from doing what they will to anyone I may have in my  _wares_."

The word was spat out like venom.

The elf reached up to curl his fingers around Dorian's wrist, gently pulling it away from his throat where reddened marks were beginning to form.

"I trust you," he murmured.

Dorian paused, the surprise of Lavellan's confession cutting through his cold fury. His eyes softened, warming as he looked at Lavellan for a long period of time.

"... You're an idiot to do so." He said finally, sighing as he let go of Lavellan's moonlight-white hair. His fingers instead caressed the curve of his cheek, cupping it gently as he pulled him into a kiss.

Lacing their fingers together as the kiss deepened, it wasn't long before Lavellan found an arm slipping around his waist, drawing him tightly against Dorian's body, moaning softly at the feeling of a firm chest against his own.

Just as fingers were about to slip under his shirt, a voice quickly interrupted them.

"If you're going to fuck, at least have the decency to wait until I'm  _outside_ the room," Varric grumbled loudly, making Dorian and Lavellan separate hastily. "I could do without the visuals; word by tongue is more than enough to satisfy my muses. And if you _are_ actually going to fuck, do it far,  _far_  away from my bed; got that?"

The Iron Bull laughed. "I wouldn't be adverse to a show," he purred, the gravelly undertone in his voice increasing with suggestion.

Lavellan and Dorian pinked in embarrassment.

It wasn't often that they'd forget about who was witnessing their private moments.

"We should—scout out the perimetre before we rest for the night," the elf stammered out, looking self-conscious as he stepped away from Dorian, grabbing his daggers and concealing them upon his person. Pulling a cloak on top, he turned to look at the Iron Bull, whose grin had only widened. "You should come with me; we'll be going around the outskirts of the city, see if we can't find any news about Solas' approach. Dorian... if you have any contacts in the city; find them. Varric, you go help him with that. We'll meet back here an hour before midnight."

Varric glanced at Lavellan with a raised brow. "Perhaps it's better if 'Bull and I stayed here. Dorian could take you around the city; you two seem like you could do with some time alone." A wry grin appeared on the dwarf's lips, making Lavellan's fluster even more so. "It might even be romantic."

"You of all people should know that I don't do romantic," Dorian drawled, slinging an arm around Lavellan's shoulders. "But that's a viable option... I know the city better than the two of you, and it's less suspicious to have a human and elf seen together on the streets than a Qunari and dwarf."

"I'm fine with anything, really." The Iron Bull concluded. "Though I must admit that I'm curious about how watery 'Vint booze is compared to Fereldan. And whether it tastes just like mabari piss."

Lavellan paused to consider their options, before he finally went with Varric's plan.

Though having not spoken about them in depth, they quickly adopted their roles: 'Bull and Varric would gather news from the drunks and residents at the tavern of the inn, while Dorian and Lavellan would scout out the immediate vicinity, allowing the mage to recover the feel of Minrathous after his long absence from the city.

As they had all split off, Lavellan couldn't help but wonder:

Solas had been days ahead of them, had had more than enough time to destroy Minrathous before they'd even arrived. Did this mean that he'd been never been aiming to reach Minrathous after all? Or—had he been waiting for something?

And if so, what was it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra would have been the new Divine had Solas not gone off the deep end.
> 
> Also, Lavellan is allowing Dorian and the others to distract him from the problems concerning Solas. That's why he's not being anally retentive (haha) about focusing solely on Solas, and joining in on the banter; Dorian would worry if he lets the mission consume all of his attention.


	3. Ha'el abelas dara uth na falon

_old sorrows are forever guiding you_

* * *

Admittedly, it had been difficult to stay in character and walk behind Dorian.

Lavellan was used to walking in front of his lover, taking point and directing where they would go—but in Tevinter, in Minrathous, it would have been too suspicious. He had to act as the quiet elf slave to the confident mage in front of him, keeping his eyes fixed upon his master's feet as they passed through the city.

They'd agreed beforehand that Dorian would order Lavellan to search out the things that would seem interesting, and they would carefully gather information about Solas and his approach as they did so.

Dorian would have to take initiative, as Lavellan wouldn't be allowed to show even the slightest hint of interest in anything other than Dorian's orders. And it was proving to be quite an interesting experience where Lavellan would defer to Dorian's judgement, unable to voice his own opinions and thoughts in fear that they would blow their cover.

The sky was beginning to darken, the faintest glimmer of stars already trying to peek through from the skies above them. However, the fading sun and the light of the torches prevented them from shining brightly. Lavellan mourned briefly for the sight, missing already the cold and crisp air of Skyhold, where the skies would light up with a startlingly divine display of stars and lights.

An aurora borealis would paint the heavens colours that Lavellan had never seen prior his time with the Inquisition—and he would have never known the name of such a marvel, had Solas not taken it up to teach him the mysteries of the Fade and the waking world.

The thought of Solas made him frown, a pang of... disquiet going through him.

He still couldn't bring himself to believe that his teacher could do such things. But neither could he distrust Leliana's reports: she'd never failed him, never led him astray with her knowledge. What could he trust? His heart, which told him Solas was blameless, or his mind, which told him Leliana's words were verity?

He could debate with himself for days upon end, but it would merely use up time that Lavellan didn't have.

The only thing he knew for sure was that Dorian, 'Bull and Varric were with him in Minrathous. Not even their guesses on Solas' destination was a fact. They could only wish that Josephine's estimations were correct.

"Lavellan."

The sudden call of his clan name made the elf snap his eyes upwards, wide and confused at Dorian's sudden call. Had he found something worth noting? He'd hope so; the past few stalls he'd had to enter were chock-filled with spices and slaves, with no hint of a rumour about Solas.

"Yes?" Lavellan answered unsurely, before quickly adding a hasty, " _maetro_ ," before Dorian would have to react to the disrespectful manner of address.

The mage had a smug look across his features, reaching out to thread fingers into white hair. Although the grip looked painful to the observing eye, Lavellan willingly let Dorian pull him in, inwardly amused by the deceptively gentle tugging on his scalp.

"Look ahead,  _pretiosus_ ," Dorian murmured, loud enough that surrounding Tevinters could hear the mocking undertone to his words.

(They just didn't know that Dorian was mocking  _them_  for their ignorance, rather than his ironic pet name for Lavellan despite his status as an apparent slave.)

"Can you see it?"

The elf let his eyes meander across the market scene, letting a confused expression cross his face.

"What is it that you wish for me to see?" He asked quietly, even as Dorian's fingers tightened slightly around his hair, forcing him to face a certain store—where a cage, covered with a large piece of canvas, stood.

"I find myself interested in what is inside of the cage.  _Inquire_  the keeper for me," Dorian all but purred into Lavellan's ear, finally letting go of his hair.

The elf shivered at the intimate nature of his voice, eyes darting between Dorian's eyes and lips for the briefest of seconds before he walked towards the store. Ignoring the stares that he'd garnered from the Tevinters who'd witnessed Dorian's seemingly rough handling of his apparent slave, he gestured at the cage once he was in front of the storekeeper, speaking with faulty Tevene.

 _"Master, cage, wants to see it,_ " Lavellan intoned haltingly, staring up at the keeper with imploringly big eyes.

His butchering attempts at the exotic language was bad enough that the keeper winced, holding back some obviously  _choice_ words as it was clear that the slave's owner was watching him. Quickly whipping the canvas off with a flourish, the keeper let a proud smirk appear on his face at the unveiling of its contents.

The following flurry of prideful Tevene from the keeper was ignored by Lavellan as he stared with wide eyes at what was found within the cage.

There was a wolf, a large, magnificent creature whose bulk made it almost too big for the cage. But the only sign of movement was the heaving of its chest, and the twitching of its nose. It was lain on its side with blood still dripping from its black fur, staining the steel flooring of the cage a rusty crimson.

The wolf was unconscious, but Lavellan could see that its condition would not detract from the value of such a creature—for it had six eyes, three on each side of its face, arranged in rows.

The Dread Wolf.

Lavellan had to resist the urge to tremble.

Sending the keeper a wan smile, he then asked, " _Gold?_ " trying his hardest to keep his fear from his voice.

" _Fifty_ _gold pieces_ ," the keeper said almost immediately, watching as Lavellan stumbled back to Dorian, telling him of the price and what was contained within the cage. The paleness of the elf's features could be attributed to the fear of the possible uses of a wolf, but the keeper didn't feel any sympathy for the slave.

Business was business, and once his goods were bought, his hands were cleaned of them.

* * *

Without questioning Lavellan's reaction to the wolf, Dorian had bought it for fifty gold to be delivered to _the House of Alexius_  four hours before midnight.

The shopkeeper had been pleased that the mage hadn't even tried to bargain to lower its price (and had been even more so when he recognised the family name  _Alexius_ as belonging to the Magisterium), announcing with graciousness that he would get his men to heal the wolf to the best of their abilities before presenting the wolf to him the following day.

However, it hadn't mattered to the elf: the sheer  _terror_ that had rushed through him at the thought of the wolf truly being Fen'harel, the Dread Wolf, had left him numb to the world outside of his mind.

He knew rationally that a god would not have been trapped so easily by humans, whether magi or not, but the six eyes, all real and responding and a crimson blood sunset red when the keeper had checked them, were ones that he'd only ever seen in his nightmares. He didn't know how he was going to be able to stand being in the same room as the wolf. He didn't know how he would even begin to explain his terror to Dorian.

He kept silent and obedient throughout their entire journey back to the inn, behaving perfectly as the meek elf slave until they'd crossed the threshold of their room.

Lavellan stumbled past the doorway, the shock still jarring him straight to the bone as he collapsed onto his bed, fingers trembling and his breath stuttered.

" _Amatus_ , if you're going to stay curled up for the rest of the night, you might as well take your weapons and clothing off. It would be dreadfully uncomfortable for the both of us," Dorian murmured finally, sitting down on the bed next to his lover.

When Lavellan didn't move to do as he suggested, the mage let out a dramatic sigh. Reaching out, he touched Lavellan's shoulder, pushing him onto his back.

The elf was pliant under the mage's fingers as he was quickly stripped of his clothing and daggers. His facial features were blank of all emotion, clearly lost in thought. It was obvious that it wasn't pleasant, not when his eyes were distant and cold.

However, the Tevinter mage didn't say a word concerning his worries, merely undressing himself and slipping under the blankets to join Lavellan.

Pulling the elf against his larger frame, he kissed his bared shoulder. "It would be best if you deigned us worthy of hearing you speak by tomorrow. How you think that the others would be able to understand you without words is beyond me; only  _I_ have such privilege." Dorian stated, his arrogant words tempered by the concern that was present in his actions.

The gentle touch of his hand against Lavellan's hip didn't beget any response, the elf merely curling up even more into himself. Dorian let out a frustrated sound at the action, though he didn't voice his irritation. He merely held the elf against his chest in a comforting embrace, seemingly sensing Lavellan's reluctance to talk.

There was a momentary flash of guilt at inspiring such worry, but Lavellan pushed it aside with ease, trying to reconcile the image of the bloodied wolf with the image of the Dread Wolf,  _Fen'harel_ , and the trail of  _vallaslin_ that had followed Solas' wake.

They had to be connected.

Was this wolf a companion to Solas? Or was it Solas? Shapeshifting wasn't out of the question: Morrigan herself had been one; able to switch between forms with nary a thought. But that would mean that Solas truly  _was_ a servant of Fen'harel—possibly even a vessel of the ancient god.

So if the wolf  _was_ Solas, how would he be able to stand before him? Let alone _buy_ him and keep him in a cage?

The fear impressed into his heart by the Dalish was not one that he could merely push aside.

Fen'harel, God of Rebellion and Trickery, had had enough power and cunning to lock up the Elven pantheon of gods indefinitely beyond the Fade.

It would be all too easy for him to destroy Lavellan, who was nothing more than a Dalish hunter, leader of the Inquisition though he may be. If a legion of gods couldn't stand up against him and remove from him from his seat of power, how could Lavellan dare to think that he'd be able to restrain Fen'harel down and drag him back to Skyhold?

But it might not be Fen'harel. It could have been just  _Solas,_ and he couldn't let Solas, his  _hah'rel_ , wreak wanton destruction.

He needed to know  _why_ he was doing this; for what purpose he would end the lives of  _innocents_  while marking all elves with  _vallaslin_. Blood writing was a rite of adulthood to the Dalish, and Solas was a bare-faced elf. Why would he want to mark them all with someone he'd publicly reviled?

And why would he mark people with the  _vallaslin_ that honoured the God without honour?

Lavellan shuddered at the direction of his thoughts, the conflict of his mind displaying itself in a small movement.

Behind him, the mage let out a soft sigh. Pulling Lavellan closer to him and keeping an arm around his thin shoulders, Dorian was oblivious to Lavellan's thoughts as he tucked the bedsheets around him. "Go to sleep,  _amatus_. I'll watch over you. You'll be safe for tonight."

Those words should have inspired confidence and reassurance within Lavellan. They'd never failed to make him relax, close his eyes and dream peacefully at Dorian's side.

Nodding silently, he buried his face into the pillow, trying to fall asleep within the warm embrace of Dorian's arms.

He didn't slip into his dreams of the Fade until after he'd heard the Iron Bull and Varric return to their room, settling in after a few muffled words with Dorian.

* * *

The sun was at its zenith when Lavellan found himself at the marketplace alone in the midst of a large crowd.

A few metres away from him sat the wolf; woundless, large, unrestrained, with a black pelt that gleamed under the harsh Tevinter sun. His tail was curled around his paws and his tongue was lolled out, the perfect image of a content wolf.

—If not for how its six crimson eyes were open and fixed upon him.

Despite the crush of people between himself and the wolf, he could feel its stare penetrating deep into his heart, his spirit, making him tremble as magic slowly began to press down upon him.

He'd only experienced this once, at the Well of Sorrows.

It began to press down against his skin, squeeze his neck and his arms and his chest and his legs, push down on his head and making him bow his neck; fall to his knees.

The magic continued to push and push, crush at him, make him gasp out for air as his head was pushed against the floor, forehead scraping against the gravel and dirt at the feet of the wolf.

Fen'harel's muzzle was above his neck.

His hot, humid breath brushed against his skin.

Drool, thick and sticky, stained his cheek, dripping its way down his face.

" _H-hah'rel_ ," Lavellan gasped out futilely, even as he felt claws press down between his shoulders. Was blood being drawn? He couldn't tell. "Stop!"

 "You should not have come here, _da'len_." Growled out, the godly voice was multi-toned and laced with power.

"I had to find Solas," he managed to choke out despite the heavy weight pressing his chest down into the ground. "Are you him? _Dara'na Fen'harel,_ Solas? _Dara'na harellan?_ " The last few words were cried out in what little Dalish he knew, heavily accented but—

The wolf stopped.

There was a moment where Lavellan could feel the heat of a breath against his neck, and he curled in on himself, shuddering. He knew the answer already, could feel it written into his bones. But he needed to hear it nonetheless.

And so he did.

"Yes, _da'len_. I am the Dread Wolf, He Who Hunts Alone and Lord of Tricksters, Roamer of the Beyond and Bringer of Nightmares. I am Solas, your bare-faced apostate, penniless and powerless against the Breach. I am _Fen'harel_ , the last of your Gods to roam the world."

Each word struck deep into his heart. Lavellan could only bend his head, forehead pressing against the floor.

_Creators, no._

Letting out a wordless keen, Lavellan cried out for the man that he'd thought he known, who had lied and left, who would curse all life upon earth to death or to bear the burden of his _vallaslin_. There had never been a Solas; only a man, a  _god_ , who would condemn the world to death and servitude.

The wolf let out a howl that shook the land of Thedas to the very core, shattering the Fade into a myriad of splinters—leaving Lavellan and Fen'harel alone in the midst of magic itself. 

Fen'harel seemed to swell in size, red eyes glowing like coals and his black mass seemingly endless as it stretched from one side of the Fade to the other. Spirits clung to his pelt and trembled, and before him lay Lavellan, prostrated in a facsimile of worship.

The heavy gaze of the wolf god forced him to lift his head, green eyes meeting red—before it shifted into a mocking imitation of Solas' kinder brown ones. Long, matted hair clung onto the wolf's form as he changed into something in between that of an elf's and a beast's.

A clawed hand reached out to stroke Lavellan's face, a kind gesture by a cruel touch.

"You have come to this city to find your Solas. Now, you will find  _solace_ in the end.  _Na then, da'len._ "

With a snap, Lavellan jerked awake, gasping for air as he scrambled out of Dorian's arms.

Tears were clinging to his eyelashes, and he could feel an ache between his shoulders, as if something sharp had pierced his skin during the night.

Kneeling down on the floor beside the bed, the elf trembled on his lonesome, his hands gripping fiercely onto his own arms. The stinging of nails digging into his flesh gave him enough of an anchor to raise his head to stare out into the Minrathous night, sultry and hot in a way that was overpowering in his terror.

—for how could a mortal stand against a god?

Would they still dare to find Fen'harel and unlock him from his cage? Should they try to delay the inevitable? Either way, Lavellan would be condemning the Iron Bull, Varric and Dorian to their deaths.

No amount of struggling would spare them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
>  _Hah'ren_ : n, Dalish/Elvish for 'elder/teacher', respectful way of addressing one's superior  
>  _Maetro_ : n, Tevene for 'master', used by slaves  
>  _Pretiosus_ : adj, Tevene for 'precious'  
>  _Da'len_ : n, Dalish/Elvish for 'little child', an endearment/moniker for younger elves  
>  _Dara'na Fen'harel, Solas? Dara'na harellan?_ : Dalish/Elvish for 'Are you Fen'harel, Solas? Are you a traitor/liar?'  
>  _Na then_ : Dalish/Elvish for 'Wake up!'


	4. Durgen tu'nuvena arla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:**
> 
> Character death; graphic descriptions of said deaths; mentions of blood, vomit, and genocide; other such triggers.

_the stones themselves yearn for home_

* * *

The moon was at its zenith when Lavellan found himself in front of the House of Alexius in the midst of a large crowd.

In front of the house lay a cage.

Inside of the cage lay a wolf.

Six red eyes stared back at Lavellan as he slowly approached, struggling to hide his fear all the while.

Behind him, he could feel the weighty gaze of Dorian on his back, and he was sure of the confusion that would be painted across his companion's faces. They only knew that Lavellan had had an interest in the wolf, and that there was some link between their missing companion and this creature. He knew that they were wondering why he was cowering before a caged wolf.

_If only they knew._

They didn't have any idea on who this wolf was.

The weighty gaze of amusement told Lavellan that Fen'harel found the situation pleasing.

Both the elf and the god knew who had the upper hand here. The wolf could surely escape the cage, surely break free of all confines—and destroy Minrathous, if that was his goal. The wolf had more than enough power after all, both physically and magically, to capture Lavellan's mind and force it to bend, to do as Fen'harel willed.

But he didn't.

He was giving Lavellan a choice.

If he unlocked the cage, he would unleash Fen'harel to prey upon his companions first. But if he left the wolf alone, he would sentence Minrathous and the rest of the world to their deaths.

Both the elf and the god knew what Lavellan would choose to do.

Skyhold would eventually fall; there would be nowhere to run from the god. Making a stand would, at least, ensure a heroic end—or so he would tell others.

Those were not his true thoughts. Lavellan was no such hero; he was a coward, he wasn't a leader, and most of all Lavellan was selfish: he'd rather perish first than to see his companions fall one after another while he cowered behind them. He would rather spare himself the hurt and heartbreak that would accompany death.

He was too weak to be able to cope with being the sole survivor, least of all if Dorian died for him.

Lavellan's eyes hardened as he reached out to unlock the cage.

He would not let it happen without a fight. _  
_

* * *

The cage door swung open. The dam was broken. The world was flooded with magic.

Clinging to every corner of every little thing like a miasma of oppression and death, it rolled in like the morning fog, stifling and dominating.

Buildings crumbled, people crumbled, a thousand voices screamed and were silenced simultaneously.

An age and an era would disappear.

A mighty empire would finally fall and collapse upon itself.

The Dread Wolf would make sure of it.

He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, permeating the very air and stealing into each breath that they took in.

He was the beat of the heart, he was the summer breeze, he was the ocean and the land and the sky and the sun—

—he was  _Fen'harel_ and he was merciless in his majesty, none could escape and none _would_ escape.

Power swelled and filled the ground, colours of greens and blues and purples and reds began to swirl and mix as the boundaries between worlds began to blur.

Reality was distorted into a grotesque imitation of the Fade, and the Fade was corrupted into a facsimile of reality.

Spirits and demons could easily walk beside humans and dwarves and Qunari.

Where they had once been unseen, unheard, they were pleading without words for their own lives as magic without mercy began to sap and kill and destroy.

There were no distinctions between the corporeal and the incorporeal, between reality and the Fade under Fen'harel's power. There was no bridge that separated life from death; they were all dying and living and thriving and perishing under the Dread Wolf's shadow—

And judgement was swift and without kindness; all but the elves would perish.

* * *

Magic like claws dug into his face and shred open his neck, making Lavellan— _s c r e a m—_ in agony as his skin was torn from his very flesh, ripping him to a million pieces as blood and muscles and bones were scraped off by magic alone.

The pain was reminiscent of the marking of the _vallaslin_ , but it was worse—much,  _much_ worse.

Fade's Blood, lyrium, and his own blood were the ink that etched its way past skin and muscle and deep into the core of his body, scratching and rending crevasses into his temples and cheeks and lips and chin, forever marking them with the mark of the Wolf.

It was liquid fire under his skin, it was the frostbite that came with the harsh winter, it was hail and sleet and tempest destroying him from the inside out.

There was no place for silent endurance in this bastardised baptism of  _vallaslin_ ; Fen'harel had perverted this rite to adulthood.

The new life signified by his new  _vallaslin_ was one that was began steeped within suffering, all meaning and sentiment broken by each sob and whimper dragged out from his lips.

But even as Lavellan shrieked himself hoarse, his yell fading into one that crackled like the leaves during the winter season, he could see ahead of him Varric and the Iron Bull, their figures wavering and distorting in his tears.

Time had no meaning in this place, but he could see how their flesh  _eroded_ from their bones as if Time itself had cocooned around them and sped up, crumbling them away into dust as according to Fen'harel's judgement lain upon them.

There had been not enough time to stop it, but it had all happened so slowly: he could see how each part of them had been eaten away as if by poison and fire, blackening and corroding, and how their features twisted in agony and shock.

By the time their names past through his lips, unintelligible between his pained sobbing and screams, they were gone. And it was only then that he could see beyond them an image of his companions, his friends, suffering the same fates.

Cassandra, his greatest of friends, was stripped bare and to the bone, teeth gritted and her hand reaching out for  _him_. She crumbled away; followed shortly by Cullen, his strong arms and lyrium not enough to stop his fate, and Josephine, whose brown eyes were wide in agony but her lips curled into a reassuring smile even as she passed.

He could see how Leliana's sunset hair was finally let loose, tumbling free from under her hood as she faded into dust, her hand curled around an object that fell to the abyss below.

Cole's blue eyes were consumed first, black hollows sinking deep into his face and his skull slowly being revealed as his skin burst into a myriad of particles. The pearly white of his bones faded shortly after. His hand had been at Sera's back, pushing her away as if it would save her from the fate that had befallen Lavellan.

Her unmarked face had been burned with the crimson lines that now adorned Lavellan's, the three lyrium-red eyes adorning her temples, the roots of a dead tree splitting her lips and traversing down her chin and neck, and sharp lines caressing the almond-curve of her eyes and bisecting each cheek into half.

Her _vallaslin_ was sure to mirror his own; the way her features crumpled into despair, crying out as Blackwall and Vivienne were spared no mercy and were disassembled before their eyes, was sure to be reflected upon his own face.

She turned watery eyes to him, crying out his name as she disappeared from his sight.

Her choppy hair, her pointed ears, the mischief that had disappeared from her eyes; Lavellan tried to burn them into his memory with the desperation of a man who had nothing left to lose. She was the last of his companions who would continue to  _live_ , even if bound in servitude to a god who destroyed instead of created.

—But there was still one person left.

Where was Dorian?

* * *

Eternity passed by in what seemed like seconds.

The fire under his skin burned all the hotter as he searched.

He was delirious in his pain and his terror, the adrenaline in his veins making him hear apparitions and voices where there was no one around.

Where was Dorian?

He needed to see him, find him; he needed to know that Dorian was still alive so that he could  _save_ Dorian.

He could hear him and feel him, but Fen'harel was cruel.

He couldn't find Dorian.

Until—

" _Nuvenin!_ "

The call of his name, loud and clear within the chaos of the Fade, was of Dorian.

He couldn't see him, couldn't find where he was; he could only choke out an answering cry of his name, of a desperate  _"Dorian!"_ as he stumbled forward, aiming nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Around him was a barrier that left him isolated from the death and destruction around him.

He was alone.

He couldn't find Dorian.

Lavellan's breath was ragged and stuttered, trying to reach out for him, trying desperately to _see_ Dorian before he, too, would disappear from him.

Fen'harel gave him no such mercy.

* * *

Time dragged on insensibly; he couldn't tell his seconds from his centuries, he ran and ran and ran until his breath ran out and when he tried to breathe in, he could only retch out blood.

And just when he would succumb and give up, he would hear Dorian scream his name out like a siren's call, which would force his exhausted legs to move again.

He was still alive; he  _had_ to be.

The world burned and warped around him, but he pushed on relentlessly.

* * *

 

Aeons passed by with every step that he took, and as he forced his way through the miasma of the Fade—the magic around him faded.

It rolled back, away, lighter and lighter.

Was it a ploy? Lavellan knew it to be something Fen'harel would do; make it seem as if Lavellan had escaped his clutches within the Fade. But he had no care for the games that the god would wish to play.

Dorian, his  _lath_ , his  _ros:_  he needed to find him.

He couldn't be dead.

His feet faltered at the thought.

What if he was? What if Lavellan was running for someone who had already disappeared, having been vapourised into a million pieces by the invasive and cruel touch of Fen'harel's magic? 

The pounding of his feet against the Fade slowed.

No cry came to reassure him of Dorian's survival.

He was alone.

It couldn't be—but there was nothing that told him otherwise.

Dorian was gone, just like the rest of his companions.

He had passed through the Fade without Lavellan bearing witness.

It was a mercy that he hadn't expected, but it hurt all the more because he hadn't  _seen_ Dorian pass away; he had disappeared by himself without Lavellan there to follow him.

The realisation knocked him to his knees, shuddering and gasping not for air but in hopelessness and despair. 

The intoxicating swirl of magic that encompassed the Fade curled around him—and suddenly  _lurched_ , knocking him onto his back with nary a cry. What care did he have for the ploys of a god when everything he had lived for was now gone?

Closing his tear-stained eyes, he let himself fall back into the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, we'll be heading into Arlathan! Huzzah!
> 
> Translation notes:  
>  _Lath_ : n, Dalish/Elvish for 'love'.  
>  _Ros_ : n, Dalish/Elvish for 'eternity/eternal one'


	5. Vira in annala

_lost within centuries_

* * *

The world was quiet when Lavellan finally found himself waking up.

He flinched at the bright light that stung at his sensitive eyes, a hand moving to cover them from the sun.

The sunlight was hot against his skin, and there was a slight breeze that began to pick up as he looked around blankly. There was nothing left of Minrathous.

Where once a glorious city and empire stood, only dust and sand remained.

In his mind's eye, he could see the marble buildings reach up into the sky, a testament to the defiance of humans against the elven gods they had overthrown.

He could recall the glimmer of the sunset light reflecting off the pure white walls, bestowing upon the Tevinter Imperium a radiance that was hard-pressed to be imitated elsewhere. He could recall the genuine love in Dorian's voice as he spoke about Minrathous, the wonders he'd painted with mere words. Words that could not compare to the true wonder of seeing it for himself.

Now, only the echoes of Minrathous would remain, resounding only within Lavellan's memory as soft sighs and murmurs. A monument that paled to that which it tried to honour.

In the overpowering sunlight, he could see how the sand flew into the air, swirling and dancing uninhibited by anything but the wind.

A soft cough escaped his parched throat as he let out a dry sob.

 _We'll scatter like dust in the wind_ , Varric had commented once,  _once we're done with Corypheus. It's bound to happen; just like how we did back in Kirkwall with Hawke._

Lavellan had laughed then, easily accepting Varric's judgement without thought.  _I doubt we'd ever be truly apart,_ he'd stated with a smile.  _We'll be together, forever branded by the Inquisition within our heart of hearts._

The memory was bitter on his tongue.

True to Varric's prediction, they had scattered like dust in the wind.

Every single one of them, people that Solas— _Fen'harel_ himself _—_ had known personally. They'd been broken down before his eyes within seconds and disappeared into the void of the Fade; there hadn't been enough time to even hope that he'd be able to save them.

In all of the stories his people had had of the Dread Wolf, none had ever mentioned the cruelty of the god.

He could still recall how his Keeper, Deshanna Ishmaethoriel, had spoken of how Fen'harel had been cunning, deceitful, and he had been all-powerful. But she'd never spoken upon how cruel he was.

Lavellan wanted to die.

* * *

He lay there on the sand, still and unmoving, staring blankly into the sun as it rose and fell.

He rarely blinked.

His mouth was dry.

His skin baked and he could feel it shrink and pull at his flesh as it burned under the relentless sun.

When the sky should have shifted from a cornflower blue to oranges and reds and yellows and purples, he could see nothing but a pure white circle surrounded by a black haze.

But he knew that night had fallen; the air grew cold. Yet still he continued to lay there, silent and just—waiting.

Waiting for death to come.

Perhaps he'd see everyone again when he finally passed.

Mother Giselle had once spoken to him about the Maker, and how those whom were righteous of heart would be called to His side when they died. They would be brought into a paradise unlike any other, whole and alive in their death, happier than ever before.

Lavellan knew that his companions had all be righteous; more so, and greater than that, in fact. Perhaps, even if there were no Maker, he would be able to meet them there.

They would all be happy, free from the stresses of life.

The thought sustained him with a new hope, and he could feel his cracked lips finally split into a faint smile. Having been still for hours under the sun, the tautened skin on his lips broke under the smile. Even as it stung, blood slowly oozing from the cuts on his lips, he let out a soft laugh.

He couldn't wait to see them all again.

   Leliana without sadness in her eyes now that she would be with her lover.

   Cullen no longer chained by lyrium and set free from his regrets.

   Josephine and Blackwall, able to love one another without repression.

   Vivienne smiling now that she was no longer playing the grand Game.

   Cole, uninhibited by the threat of control and Sera, her face free from angry crimson gashes.

   The Iron Bull standing tall and proud by his Chargers.

   Varric, finally able to reunite with Hawke.

   Cassandra alive, breathing, ever at his side through thick and thin even when they fought dragons and the undead and Corypheus.

And he'd be able to see Dorian again.

—And so, Lavellan lay there for an eternity as the relentless heat of the day had faded into the sharp, biting cold of the night.

The cold seeped into his bared arms, insidious as it gripped him tightly, making him shiver despite himself.

The metal of his belt dug into his stomach, a futile attempt to persuade him into moving. It was icy in the Tevinter night. But he would endure.

Skyhold had been colder.

But back at Skyhold, he hadn't been—alone.

The temperature would plunge with the first of the snow drifting down from the heavens at night. He would have fur wrapped around him, blankets and silks and pillows that were strewn across the wooden floor by the fireplace; a fire would burn in the magnificent and ornate fireplace, lit by the fire that Dorian commanded so very easily; he would have Dorian at his side, holding him throughout the night.

The cold of the Tevinter night seemed colder than Skyhold at the thought.

His eyes were finally closed, but sleep eluded him.

All he could see was still white surrounded by black. Perhaps he was blind; but it didn't matter to him.

The Fade would eventually take him and free him from Fen'harel's curse.

* * *

The night faded back into the heat of day, and still he was alone.

Time seemed to blur as the sun and moon circled across the sky one after the other, and he didn't know whether he was awake or asleep, whether he was dreaming in the Fade or hallucinating silence.

His every breath was the only sign that he was still alive.

—Until he suddenly wasn't alone.

The world was no longer quiet, and his eyes snapped open in shock.

Blurred and ghostly, the shadows surrounding him slowly took form. Sluggishly, green eyes focused on the blurs into recognisable shapes.

Around him, elves were standing over him, identified only by the sharp jut of their ears. Their hands were probing as they chattered amongst themselves in Dalish over him.

He could recognise mutterings of  _Mythal_ and  _Fen'harel_ , and _second one_ , but little else. They spoke Dalish too fast, and too fluently for him to understand. It was shocking, for what clan would have such a great understanding of Dalish? None of the clans had much other than derelict remnants of their past. What little language they yet possessed were shared and propagated throughout all of the clans.

But greater still was the shock he felt at the sight of blood writing upon their skin. He could see when one elf leaned over him, feathery brown hair caressing his cheeks and nose, that the woman had the mark of Falon'din upon her cheeks and brow.

Lavellan found himself surprised to see that he couldn't see Fen'harel's painted into her flesh.

Black eyes were surprised to see Lavellan staring back up at them, and soon enough, the elves began to examine him closer, asking questions that he had no answer to. Asking things that he didn't understand.

And he then knew that amongst those closest to him, Falon'din and Sylaise adorned their faces, ranging in all different colours from browns to blues to greens. But never red. Beyond them, there were two in gold, one of Mythal and Elgar'nan each. One was the silver of lyrium, Dirthamen's mark proud upon her brow. June, Ghilan'nain and Andruil were nowhere to be seen—

But it did not matter to him.

Had these Dalish escaped the Dread Wolf? Had they found him lying in the ruins of Minrathous?

Did they know it was fruitless to try and save him when there was nothing left for him in this world?

His head was captured by soft hands, pulling him up and pressing a wineskin to his lips. Lyrium _sparked_ and burned where those hands touched him; he shuddered and cried out futilely, but those hands continued to touch him, grasp his jaw and force him to part his lips. He was made to drink water, forced to swallow each stinging mouthful. His throat burned at the caress of water, and he choked and coughed, spilling it everywhere.

"No," he gasped out, his voice cracking. "Leave me!"

They paid him no heed, grabbing his jaw and prying his mouth open again. Water was poured down his throat, it ran down his mouth, ran into his nose, ran down his throat and soaked his clothing—and he gagged and drowned, but they did not let go of him until he'd been made to gulp down three agonising mouthfuls.

He struggled again, weakly, against those hands when they'd pulled the wineskin from his lips.

"Let me  _go!_  Your efforts are wasted upon me!" Lavellan yelled hoarsely, even as one of Sylaise's chosen placed his hand over Lavellan's eyes.

There was a swell of the Fade around the hand, and Lavellan panicked, struggling despite the numerous hands that grabbed him and the Dalish that tried to reassure him to  _tu eth, da'len dirtha no, ama na sule'din_ —

and he faded away, forced into unconsciousness by magic.

Dead to the world outside of the Fade, he never knew how those elves pulled him up and into their arms, singing all the while as they began to journey back to Arlathan, their words strung together in jubilation and pride.

* * *

Unlike the world he could now see, Lavellan's dreams were bright and colourful.

He wasn't alone, there were arms around him, the sound of contentment and wondrous laughter in his ears.

He couldn't see who was around him, couldn't recognise anything other than the Orlesian finery that surrounded them.

Heavy curtains of velvety fabric draped the trees around them and the _ara'vel_ surrounding the firepit with the rich shades of reds and purples and blues of embroidered fabric. The heady smell of spices and woody smoke filled his lungs, and he could hear distantly the crackling of food slowly being cooked. The faces of the people he was content to chatter with were unknown to him, shifting between all shapes and manners of living beings, but he was—

Content.

He was happy.

Nothing could bother him in this portion of the Fade that was now his own, his desires shaping everything into what he yearned for silently. He was surrounded by his Clan, no longer alone now that he was surrounded by  _family_ and love.

His heart throbbed, wishing that this could be true.

His dreams were a temptation that he would never be able to pursue.

Laughter surrounded him, folding him into a bittersweet embrace as he closed his eyes, listening to the rare sound of delight. Songs were sung in the background, he could hear people dancing; the fire roared in front of him.

Settling against the warm body behind his own that was holding him, Lavellan let himself fall back into the dream, trying to cling onto what little happiness he could steal from his dream.

* * *

The curious touch of fingers against his skin made him stir, but he could not wake up.

Lavellan's eyes remained closed as those fingers drifted down, brushing over his brow where Andruil's bow would have stood proudly. He knew his skin was bare where the finger followed the line of his nose, feeling how the cartilage had been set incorrectly after being broken.

Those invasive fingers slid further down, tracing his lips.

He knew the angry silver-red lines that painted his face had split his lips into half, dividing into three thick veins that climbed down his chin and dug into his throat, taking root at the apple.

The lyrium within his veins  _sparked_ at the touch, and he couldn't hold back the pained whimper that escaped his throat.

Those fingers stopped, and pulled back.

The sound of fabric rustling was heard and the faint murmur of Dalish. Lavellan was finally able to move, so he did, clenching aching fingers and blinking open green eyes.

Looking heavenwards blindly, he could see only a dark mass above him, blocking out what little light he could see.

" _Na'dara shem'len._ " It wasn't a question, merely a statement of a fact.

Lavellan's features twisted into one of confusion. He was an elf; it was clear that he was. "I am not a  _shem_ ," he murmured, closing his eyes again when it was clear that he wouldn't be able to make out anything other than a moving mass of black. "I am  _el'vhen_."

There was a moment of silence.

" _How old are you?_ " The elf continued to ask in Dalish.

Rather than answer him, Lavellan began to sit up even though his head throbbing at the action. A hand grabbed his shoulder, sparking a jolt of— _something_ through him. It wasn't pain. It was something different altogether—close enough to  _magic_ , though Lavellan knew otherwise.

He had no magic in his own blood after all.

It was enough for him to open his eyes again, shock coursing through him as he stared blankly at the dark figure in front of him. His hand began to hurt.

" _You are not one of the People._ " The words were accusing.

Lavellan didn't care for the accusation, nor did he feel the need to answer the question. Even his momentary curiosity faded when he remembered that he was alone.

"It doesn't matter—let me die. There is nothing left for me... you'd be doing the Inquisition a favour by leaving me," he said humourlessly. The Blight had over years ago; the Breach had been sealed; Corypheus was dead by his own hand. By the Mark that was now sealed under his skin.

He had no need to be the  _Herald of Andraste_ or the Inquisitor now; there was no one to lead, and nothing to lead to.

But the elf in front of him didn't seem to care for his sentiments, the hand moving from his shoulder to grab his chin, right where the lyrium split into three. A soft gasp left him, and a thumb push past his lips, grazing teeth to press down on his tongue.

The taste of salt and dirt lingered in his mouth.

" _Speak properly._ Shem'len _tongues have no place here—_ " and the rest of the elf's words disappeared into a jumble of Dalish that Lavellan had never learned or heard of. The thumb in his mouth didn't move away.

Lavellan sat there silently, a soft exhale passing through his nose as he closed his eyes. There was no point trying to comprehend words he didn't understand: he'd never been the most scholarly of his people, never learning more Dalish than he needed.

The thumb was pulled out of his mouth, and his left hand was grabbed.

He was pliant under the manhandling, just wishing to be left alone.

The back of his hand was touched, his fingers examined by other fingers, his palm revealed to the open; the white scar where the Mark had once been finally bared to eye—

And there was an angry hiss that finally cut off the flow of Dalish from the elf, and Lavellan opened his eyes, curious despite himself at the way his hand was dropped. The elf recoiled away from him, and all but sprinted out of the room. The door slammed behind the elf, and he wondered at that.

Left alone in a room he couldn't see, Lavellan lay back down onto the soft surface and curled up, tucking himself, his back, against the closest wall-like surface he could find.

Closing his eyes, he wondered when he would be able to end it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in the tags, this is going to be a super slow-build thing. It may not be the most fun to read, but this is how my mind works. Lavellan's not realised that he's in a different time, and he's going to go through a lot of culture shock, especially now that he's blinded. ~~Whoops.~~
> 
> And it might not be obvious, but Dorian's still alive. He'll pop up soon enough, don't worry. _Hush there and don't kill me please._
> 
> By the way, those curious about how Fen'harel's marks look like can find them here: http://bit.ly/18MHxj3 (I'm sorry for my shit art.)
> 
> Translation notes:  
>  _Tu eth, da'len dirtha no, ama na sule'din_ : Dalish/Elvish for 'Now safe, little one speak not, continue to endure'.  
>  _Na'dara shem'len_ : Dalish/Elvish for "You are [quick people]". _Shem'len_ is a somewhat derogatory label that the elves in generally call non-elves, typically humans. It came originally from the fact that the elves were once immortal, and that all other races would die after enough time passed by.


	6. Interlude 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set pre-romance.

_in which Dorian is nothing less than a human_

* * *

To the Tevinter altus, used to subservient elves and power-hungry men in power, Lavellan was a rather curious elf.

It wasn't often, after all, that an elf would be able to secure himself a position of power. And rarer still was when everyone under his power  _accepted_ this drastic shift in conventions. When everyone serving this elf was  _happy_ to be his subordinate.

Dorian wasn't so sure he'd be able to look at this elf as his leader.

It wasn't to do to with what he was, or how he looked (if anything, his looks could turn out to be quite the  _incentive_ to be loyal to him), but rather, it was to do with how readily he could accept Dorian's presence within the Inquisition.

It was strange.

And it was utterly mind-boggling.

If anything, a Dalish elf who had the power to do so should have spat at his feet, accuse him of being a blood magic-wielding magister and sentence him to death for the injustices his countrymen had committed for centuries against the elves—

But no. He'd been smiled at, touched on the hand and welcomed. He'd been asked whether he was going to leave—and silently asked to stay.

It would be a demon-less day in the Fade before Dorian would ever admit to being utterly flabbergasted at how the elf had accepted him without question, even batting his ludicrously big eyes at him and coaxing him to stay with very lines of his body.

Dorian had, of course, felt obliged to indulge him and spout out flowery words about the quaint charm of the south and how it had utterly _raptured_ him.

—Which was utterly false, but omission really was the key to polite conversation; one would never survive in the Imperium without learning to hold their tongue and spew gilded lies in the place of half-truths.

It really did help that the dear, sweet Herald was very easy on the eyes.

Dorian had no doubts that should any of his fellow Alti or magisters lay their eyes upon him, they'd be tempted to keep the elf all to themselves. And really, he couldn't blame them; he'd been tempted himself. (The blasted elf had this damned tendency to part his lips when he was in thought, letting out hums and sighs and drawing the eye to the way his tongue would dart out to wet his dry lips.)

(He truly did rue the day that he noticed this particular quirk. It  _did_ make it impossibly trying to focus on sending lightning at the demons instead of staring at the way the elf would gnash his little teeth at his enemies, thrust his wiry arms out to slash at abominations and bandits, and  _dance_ in battle.)

It was all that he could do to squirrel himself away, isolating himself from the rest of the Inquisition to avoid—ah, _offending_  the delicate sensibilities of the Chantry-obsessed southerners.

He assumed that the elf would share the same sentiments as the rest of the Fereldans the moment they all found out exactly what kind of _Tevinter magister_ (ha! The very thought of it!) Lavellan had recruited. It was bad enough after all that Dorian was a proud Tevinter mage, should they have found out that he _preferred the company of men_...

Ah, well, it was bad luck to ponder such thoughts; it might actually curse a situation that would have turned out to be drastically different into exactly what he dreaded.

He contented himself with watching the elf occasionally flit across Haven, a wry smile appearing on his lips at the way he would occasionally send Dorian a jaunty wave with his newly forged daggers (how many times has it been now? His eighth trip to the smithy?), or how he would make as if to walk towards Dorian—only to be intercepted by Mother Giselle.

The elf would always let himself be guided away by the Mother, and each time, he would send Dorian an apologetic look, as if it would be enough to make up what would have undoubtably been a very _stimulating_ conversation.

Dorian was too much of a Pavus to permit himself the luxury of _delighting_ in his emotions, but nevertheless, irritation and disappointment would often settle in the pit of his abdomen whenever he saw the bright-eyed elf veer off in another direction.

He put more of his focus on writing letters, unsent, to Felix about all that happened during his time with the Inquisition; practicing and creating spells to fill in the hours before he was next needed to help out.

He never wrote about how he would await for the elf's call whenever he would head out on expeditions to close off rifts.

After all, it was embarrassing just how quickly he'd let himself become enraptured by the elf.


	7. Durgen'adahl'en

_forest of stone_

* * *

They had grabbed him, pushed him back onto his knees then feet and made him walk.

Blinded and weak, Lavellan could only follow the insistent hands as they dragged him out of the room and—into the open, where the breeze danced across his skin and the sun hit his skin.

He flinched when the sheer _noise_ outside hit his ears, amplified by the dulled sense of sight.

All he could hear were elves talking, elves bartering, elves chattering in Dalish with such speed and fluency that it made his head spin and his stomach drop. He could hear the rustling of fabric, the clinking of pottery against wood, the clucking and bustle of a market filled with people and livestock all of whom were trying to outcompete the other in being the loudest—

Nausea rose inside of him, and it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing up, fear and confusion and tension rising up within him to such an extent that he collapsed within the harsh grip on his wrist. He couldn't understand the sudden rush of sensations; he couldn't hear a word of Common Tongue in this place; he felt so  _lost_  that he didn't even realise that the elves holding onto him were talking loudly around him.

He shrunk into himself, only able to make out the faintest glimmer of gold upon one of the black shadows around him.  _Elgar'nan or Mythal_ , his mind supplied surreptitiously, even as the _vallaslin_ disappeared from his sight.

They asked him questions in Dalish; he couldn't understand them. He didn't answer them.

When he didn't answer, they covered his eyes and pulled fabric over his head.

Carried around like a child, Lavellan submitted himself to the shame of needing to be led in this unknown world, filled with people he didn't know. People he didn't _want_ to know. Everyone he wanted to know, people he wanted to _stay_ with, they were all gone; there was nothing left for him.

Loneliness was all he could feel now.

Perhaps the elves around him realised that; realised that Lavellan wouldn't want to talk to anyone other than himself; realised that if they left him in a room with a dagger, they'd return to find it lodged inside of his throat and him gurgling in his laughter, finally free and safe and guided by Falon'din to where Dorian and Cassandra and all the others were waiting for him.

He could feel the ground beneath him shift from trampled dirt to rough stone, to cobblestone and finally to smooth stone slabs that were cold and slippery beneath his feet. They were walking up stairs, and he was still being carried, led around like a child.

They stopped suddenly, and he was lifted even higher, forced to get up onto his tiptoes by the tight grip of fingers digging into his arms. His feet were barely touching the ground, his arms were captured, cloth veiled his face from sight.

He wouldn't be able to see anything in front of him. He couldn't see anything anyway.

Lavellan could hear large doors opening in front of him, and he could hear fire crackling in braziers, and the whisper of fabric against the floor. Feet moved across stone slabs, and Lavellan found himself being shoved forward, stumbling at the sudden harshness.

His hand reached out to try and brace himself for the eventual fall—only to find himself falling face-first into a robed chest, his hand pillowing his cheek and curling against bare skin.

The skin was warm beneath his cold fingers.

The fabric in front of him was a dull red.

His hand suddenly ached, and Lavellan realised that it was the hand where the Anchor once lay. He could feel it twinge with a phantom ache, reminiscent to the scant few hours he'd first woken up at Haven. The chest beneath his hand stilled for a moment, and he could feel his hand ache even more, as if something was resonating between himself and the elf he was touching.

" _Vira!_ "

Accompanying the harsh command, the chest rumbled beneath his fingers. Lavellan tried to push away, to regain his bearings enough to attempt standing by himself. Instead, he could feel arms going around him, keeping him in place.

The elves behind them murmured a few Dalish phrases before leaving, their footsteps eventually going silent as they disappeared.

The doors slid shut behind them, and fire continued to crackle within the braziers.

There was a moment of silence, and Lavellan realised that the ache in his hand was gone.

It was enough of a sign for him to continue, and so he continued to futilely struggle against the hold.

It didn't work; the arms around him were too strong, and he could feel the way the hand on his back began to drift. Fear made him tense up, and he let out a pathetic _let go of me_ , whispered against hot skin and lacking the power befitting an Inquisitor.

The elf holding him suddenly released him.

Lavellan let out a startled gasp when he tipped backwards, falling flat on his ass and the cloth falling from his face.

He heard a sharp intake of breath from the elf that had just held him, and he was suddenly assaulted by fingers probing and touching his face, the shameful  _vallaslin_ that now graced his cheeks.

" _Fen'harel enansel..._ " The elf breathed.

Fen'harel's blessing.

Was the elf calling his  _vallaslin_  a gift from Fen'harel? It was no blessing; it was a curse, wrought in not just his own blood but those of his friends. And if it truly  _was_ a blessing, it was a blessing that Lavellan could not bring himself to feel anything but pure and utter revulsion for.

The disgust must have been clear on his face; those fingers dug into his cheeks and  _clawed_ at the lyrium, sparking it and making him whimper in pain.

It was unlike physical pain, which could be ignored. Lyrium attacked his  _spirit_ , his very being. It was not the transitory pain that would eventually leave as he healed. The Fade curled around him, moving as if to rip him apart.

"Let go!" Lavellan cried out, suddenly fearful of this person he could not see and thus could not anticipate.

Stumbling backwards, he swatted ineffectively at those hands, managing to break away enough to stumble backwards, fearful and terrified. The back of his head hit the wall, he let out a startled gasp, his wrists were caught and pinned to the wall above him, forcing him to arch his back, completely exposed and vulnerable.

That clawing hand grabbed his jaw again.

He could feel magic swelling within those fingers, and he could feel terror begin to well up inside of him.

Shaking violently under the restraints, he kicked out, lashed out, cried out for help as he felt magic dig into his face and his neck.

The lyrium-infused _vallaslin_  was quiet at first—before it suddenly  _bloomed_  and it lashed out, sharp lances of pain hitting him from head to toe. It burned under his skin; it was surely burning the elf's hand and _destroying_ what magic he held in his hand.

Blinded though he may be, he could see the ghostly blue-white of lyrium surrounding him like a halo—but it did not seem to deter the elf; he was still grabbing onto his face and preventing him from moving away.

The lyrium was sapping at the elf's magic and Lavellan's strength.

Lavellan's strength failed first, and he slumped against the wall as the white fire under his skin was snuffed out.

The elf laughed, proudly, loudly, his strong voice ringing throughout the empty hallway they were still in.

Harsh and guttural, the elf began to speak in his lyrical Dalish, and with each word, he could hear the amusement and the pride that lingered in his words, he could  _feel_ the words entering his ears, enter his mind, finding meaning though he couldn't understand Dalish as well as any other elf.

The elf was going to take him; a gift, a prize, a boon of a slave from a _shem'len._

Distantly, Lavellan wondered at that.  _Shem'len?_ There were no  _shem'len_ left in this world. He'd seen them all fade before his eyes—all those who lived upon Thedas. Fen'harel had made sure of it.

His chin was forced up by astonishingly soft fingers, and his face was brought upwards. His back arched; he strained to pull away, the grip was too strong. The elf towered over him, pinning his wrists to the wall, his larger form covering his own.

Lavellan was powerless to stop the elf, whether by word or strength.

His vehement curses were cut short by a mouth attaching upon his own. The fingers holding his chin slid down, grabbing his neck and pinning him back against the wall. And as lips dragged against his own, Lavellan's eyes finally saw what he couldn't see earlier due to their distance.

Solas'— _Fen'harel's_ —red eyes were fixed upon his.

He couldn't escape.

Lavellan screamed into the kiss as fingers plunged into his neck, ripping the lyrium from his blood and silencing him abruptly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
>  _Vira!_ : vb, Dalish/Elvish for 'Go!' Can also be translated as 'Leave!' or '[Get yourself] Lost!'  
>  _Fen'harel enansel_ : Dalish/Elvish for 'Fenharel's blessing [be upon you]'. Dalish elves use this phrase as a curse of misfortune upon others, or to describe astonishing bad luck.
> 
> I'm super cruel towards my Lavellan, the poor baby.  
> Revelations of the timeline shall come next chapter, if all goes well.  
> Perhaps Dorian might finally peek his head too.


	8. Nuvena nehn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a shitty chapter. Sorry about this. ~~Updates for this story are probably going to take a long time thanks to my lack of muse.~~

_to wish for joy_

* * *

The most striking thing that had caught the wolf god's eye had been the sheer size of the elf. Unlike the slaves that had brought the elf in, he had been small; almost by one or two heads, looking all but a child within the grasp of Elgar'non's chosen, who had brought him in.

It was quickly apparently to Fen'harel that the slave's strange size wasn't due to malnourishment, nor was it due to anything else: if anything, the elf was surprisingly healthy save for his clouded green eyes. There was some other reason as to why this elf was so different to the rest of his own race.

And then the elf had stumbled, falling against him.

It was then that he'd felt a paradoxical lack and fullness of the Fade within the elf. And the moment the elf had fallen against his chest and touched him was the moment he understood _why_ the elf seemed to be a stranger to even his own race.

Every elf, whether trained in the arts or not, noble or slave, had had some connection to the Veil that encompassed Elvhenan and the lands beyond it. It was how they could survive the tests of time when the other races could not; it was how the  _el'vhen_ separated themselves from the  _shem'len_ that populated the lands outside of their civilisation.

This elf was  _mortal_.

And because of his mortality, he was unable to use magic granted by the Fade, and it was also the reason why he was as small as a child. Typically, elves would reach full mental and physical maturity by their first century of living; this elf's mortality denied his body the chance to mature. He seemed younger than a century, perhaps twenty summers or so, which kept him barely the size of an adolescent.

It was strange to find out that his supposedly _immortal_ race could fade away due to time, and he found himself pleasantly intrigued for the first time in a... very long time.

He decided that the slave would be interesting to keep around, just to see how elves would eventually decay, whether they would appear as humans did in their advanced age. Perhaps he wouldn't age at all: he would keep his eternally youthful features before eventually succumbing to that peculiar disease called  _age_.

But even beyond just keeping him within his power, Fen'harel had a greater reason as to why he would watch over this slave. And _personally_ , too.

The elf had his magic trapped within his hand; his very being was now bound to Fen'harel's focus. It was a threat and a show of peace, really, that the such a being would be sent to Fen'harel.

And who else would dare threaten a god but a  _shem'len_ , who had the audacity to spit at the feet of deities above them?

By revealing how one could bind a god's magic to a living being, the  _shem'len_  that had done such a deed was revealing how much power they had over the gods and thus how powerless the gods would be to stand up against the _shem_. The death of a being tied to a god's focus would lead to the loss of all of their powers. And it was an act of goodwill that the _shem_ would return the magic to its holder.

Fen'harel could appreciate how well the Game could be played, especially by one who had no place amongst the People.

Fen'harel, too, could appreciate the beauty of the goodwill offering the  _shem_ had sent... though he had to admit,  _shem'len_  really did have peculiar tastes in how they dressed and kept their slaves.

The slave had been found in ragged armour, according to the reports from Sylaise's chosen, with richly dyed fabric underneath. It had been a green that could rival the depths of their greatest forests, and it would have been a fitting offering for Sylaise had it not been shredded by weapons and coated with blackened blood. His armour had been made of hide and scales and chainmail linked together with such skill that even June would have been envious.

It had been gifted to Mythal as an plea for protection for the rest of the People against the  _shem'len_ that had dared to steal one of their own race from their cities.

And then they'd finally brought the elf to Fen'harel after stripping him and healing him, leaving him within Fen'harel's halls in nothing more than a white robe now stained in bloody lyrium.

It was rather insulting. And it  _was_ an insult.

But Fen'harel would take no offense; this slave was more than enough to make up for any ire that he may have felt at any perceived slight.

Reaching out to take hold of the slave's chin, he lifted it up to peer at the lines that covered his lips and neck with a smile finally curling upon his lips.

The lyrium that made up Fen'harel's  _vallaslin_  was accompanied by Mythal's. The roots that branched from the elf's lips and curled around his throat... What was the  _shem_ trying to say by bastardising the  _vallaslin_ of the two gods into one?

Fen'harel found it rather amusing, really, that it would be an unbelieving  _shem_  would do such a daring deed. Especially onto a slave now under the protection of the spirit that which he represented; rebellion.

The god tilted his head slightly as he let go of the slave's chin. He watched the slave slumped down against the wall, as limp as a corpse without support.

Metallic red liquid dripped from the hand-shaped wound on his neck, staining his robe further with crimson. He rather liked the debauched, violated look on his slave; it was charming, and it pleased him.

After all, from what little he had seen of the elf, the slave had fire and spat back at him with vitriol even if he didn't speak much Elvish. He wanted to see such... indomitable pride and tenacity to finally break. It would be  _fascinating_ to see this elf dominated, especially one as delicately beautiful as he.

He couldn't fault the  _shem_  for their eye for beauty. He was rather pleased with this being, as the slave that he'd been given was of a rare sort even in Arlathan due to his colouring.

The shock of white hair, unruly and untamed, was unseen even amongst the gods, and none of the nobles would dare to rival the beauty of starlight with their hair. His eyes, an ocean green colour that had hazed over in blindness, were round and framed by white lashes that clung to his skin like winter frost. And he had a delicate beauty that was belied by the harshness of the red-lyrium  _vallaslin_  upon his features, declaring the slave to be one of Fen'harel's chosen.

His only  _chosen_ , in fact, as none of the People would dare to ire the other gods by pledging themselves (or rather, their slaves) under Rebellion.

Out of all the slaves and nobles in the city of Arlathan, only this one elf had his  _vallaslin_  marked upon his face. And Fen'harel found himself...  _pleased_. No living being pledged to serving him would have brought him as much pleasure as the one now in front of him.

Sending over a single elf as a pledge gift to the one god in the Pantheon who never wanted slaves; he really would have to find the  _shem'len_  soon enough, and reveal his  _delight_  at being presented such a gift.

But in order to find out exactly who the _shem_ was, he'd have to take the knowledge out of the slave's mind.

He reached out to press his fingers against the slave's brow.

With the lyrium he'd stolen from the elf, it was only a matter of seconds before he ripped the Fade open, forcing the elf's mind to open up before him.

* * *

Foreign language, the tongue of  _shem'len_.

Familiar language, the decay of Elvish.

Elves,  _vallaslin_ of all sorts on their faces, fade in and out of view;  
all different colours, slaves not slaves, they are all the same;  
 _Mamae_ , Keeper, First, Second, Hunter, family, _lethallin_ _._

Andruil is my god, Andruil is on my skin,  
I live for the hunt and there's nothing more.

Years flash by, life goes on, daggers in hands as hunts, life, death all cycle by;  
the revulsion of the Dread Wolf  
the destruction of elves as they are captured and locked up within cities as livestock  
pestilence and disease are as common as flies among the mortal elves

Nomads; places flitted in and out of view, always avoiding the same thing: villages.  
 _Shem'len_ , not just humans but dwarves and Qunari too; more powerful than the elves  
disgust, hate, sadness; why can't elves be like that too?

History is lost, people are lost, nothing left, nothing more,  
nothing left

 _Conclave_ , burst of green and the tear in the sky  
Cassandra, Leliana, Anchor is growing, Solas is here, who is the Herald of Andraste?  
Faces flash by, faces come close, faces are, they all are one of us now

Time is warped; Dorian is smiling back at me, Felix is dead, Alexius is dead  
the Breach is  
 _Corypheus, he is here_

The Inquisition comes first, we need to stop the Darkspawn, stop them all,  
the Anchor was growing it's stopped, it hurts  
protect  _lethallin_ Solas please help me

The Game is played  
Lives are won and lost  
The army approaches  
We walk through the Fade

I am Lavellan  
I am Inquisitor  
I am  _amatus_

Dorian kisses like fire and light and magic and _ar lath ma_ _ma'ros_  
I hate you I hope you realise that  
Please don't leave me  
I will never; nothing about you shall ever bear me away

I am loved and I love in return  
Dorian is all I need

But Solas is gone  
The world burns  
Cassandra and everyone else is gone  
The Fade encloses upon me

I am alone

I want to die

* * *

Pulling himself out of the elf's mind, Fen'harel blinked slowly, the lyrium in his blood slowly dissipating after such a grandiose display of power.

The slave was still slumped against the wall, though the blood on his neck was sluggish. His wounds were slowly closing, and it took nary but a brush of Fen'harel's fingers against his skin for all of his wounds to seal shut.

He left the caustic lyrium-infused blood alone.

"How interesting." Fen'harel intoned, shaping his words carefully in this c _ommon trade_ _tongue_ so often spoken in this elf's memories.

The harsher, more guttural sounds of the  _shem'len_ tongue was unfamiliar to Fen'harel, but he could now speak it nonetheless. Such knowledge could only be useful, knowing that this slave was more than he appeared to be.

This slave was not a slave of Arlathan. And not only that, he was not of the People, nor of the theocracy of El'vhenan; he was displaced from the very fabric of _time_ itself.

Fen'harel let out a sharp bark of laughter, even as he pondered over what he had seen.

A sweet little elf, coming from a time where elves were mortal? How very peculiar. He was now more than pleased with this offering, more than pleased to know that his mark lay etched upon this elf's face.

It was not a comprehensive timeline that he'd stolen from the elf's mind.

He'd only picked up little flashes and thoughts, and he was tempted to dive into the elf's mind once more, if only to see things more clearly at the cost of the elf's sanity.

Indeed, the temptation was starting to grow very, _very_ strong.

The image of the orb within this...  _Corypheus'_ hands... and the magic that oozed from this elf's hand: it had to mean something. Especially after having seen his own face within the elf's memories.

And that, too, was something that he found himself growing curious about.

He had called himself Solas.

Pride.

It was fitting that he would call himself this.

Fen'harel was more than justified to be as prideful as he was: he was recognised as a  _god_ within the eyes of both of the Pantheons, the Creators and the Forgotten Ones; he was the Dread Wolf, walking without fear within Elgar'nan's ranks and Anaris'.

But he had to wonder, how had this proud empire of elves fallen so much that they had been subjugated by the _shem'len_? Why had he been alone, and humbled enough to behave just like any common elf?

For his answers, he would need to collect this elf's... Dorian.

And thanks to his elf's memories, he would be more than equipped to locating the  _shem_.

This single elf had to have travel through time with a magic-bearing companion; there was no other explanation as to how this elf would have navigated the Fade otherwise. The Veil that separated the living from the spirits was one that could only be traversed by those sensitive to the Fade. And he had seen all of the elf's companions disappear into the Fade, all save for this one magic-wielding human.

But exactly  _how_ had this human been able to manipulate time and the Fade to such an extent that they'd (he was assuming, at least) both survived, sanity intact and their physical bodies still functioning?

Perhaps in the future, the  _shem'len_ had learnt how to dabble with time itself; and perhaps, once Fen'harel had found this  _shem_ , he'd soon be able to do such a thing himself.

It was only fitting, after all, that a god should have access to such a divine power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap! It's a Fen'harel/Solas POV in the main plot for once! Maybe things might make sense for the readers now!!!
> 
> Translation notes:  
>  _Mamae_ : n, Dalish/Elvish for 'mother [formal ver.]'  
>  _Lethallin_ : n, Dalish/Elvish for 'blood kin/clansman [masculine/plural ver.]', endearment for family/clan members or a similar relationship


End file.
